Jan 31, 2005
Weekend of wrath
Oh. I am SO TIRED. I need coffee, but I'm so tired, I can't even make it to the coffee machine. I'm either really tired, or really lazy...pick one. Or both.
This weekend was interesting for many reasons. Let me give you the highlights: forgotten medication, lots of wine, and a child that should just be sentenced now, because she's on the path to becoming a juvenile delinquent.
Let me start with the part that just started off my entire weekend with a bang: I forgot to get my meds refilled. "That's okay," you think, "because 50% of the medication will still be in your body the next day." Yes, true. But when that missing 50% is so important, it's imperative that you don't ever let it get away. Which I did. Which was not good. Let's just say there was much uttering of bad words, teeth-clenched headshaking, husband-hating, and patience-losing. For the most part, I was able to keep quiet. I digress.
On to the fun part: Lots of wine. Not TOO much, but quite a bit. Let me just share with you, that Venezuela turns out lots of good wine. Not just "good" wine, but particularly fabulous wine wherein you can drink an entire bottle and not even realize it. Maybe you don't realize it because you have inhaled the entire bottle, but then again, maybe not.
The not-so-fun part: We went over to our good friends' house on Sunday. A day of relaxation, friendship, and apparently, whining, crying, screaming, stubbornness, and hitting-boys-with-pieces-of-race-track.
We didn't go over there until 430, but at 230, we were seriously debating whether one of us should just stay home with Jenna, and save our friends (and their kids) from her wrath. Idiots that we are, we decided to take her. (Cue 'scary movie' music.) Instead of reliving the horror, I'll just cut it short and say that the following things were involved: shrieking, screaming, whining, crying; hitting a nice boy in the face with a piece of flexible, plastic racetrack; not apologizing, refusing to apologize, downright refusing to utter a syllable of apologetic phrasing to the boy, finally uttering apology after being warned that no dessert will be issued; refusing to give goodbye hugs/kisses/pats/high-fives, or any other show of friendship; breaking boys' hearts. Wow. We are off to SUCH a good start to those tumultuous teenage years.
This weekend was interesting for many reasons. Let me give you the highlights: forgotten medication, lots of wine, and a child that should just be sentenced now, because she's on the path to becoming a juvenile delinquent.
Let me start with the part that just started off my entire weekend with a bang: I forgot to get my meds refilled. "That's okay," you think, "because 50% of the medication will still be in your body the next day." Yes, true. But when that missing 50% is so important, it's imperative that you don't ever let it get away. Which I did. Which was not good. Let's just say there was much uttering of bad words, teeth-clenched headshaking, husband-hating, and patience-losing. For the most part, I was able to keep quiet. I digress.
On to the fun part: Lots of wine. Not TOO much, but quite a bit. Let me just share with you, that Venezuela turns out lots of good wine. Not just "good" wine, but particularly fabulous wine wherein you can drink an entire bottle and not even realize it. Maybe you don't realize it because you have inhaled the entire bottle, but then again, maybe not.
The not-so-fun part: We went over to our good friends' house on Sunday. A day of relaxation, friendship, and apparently, whining, crying, screaming, stubbornness, and hitting-boys-with-pieces-of-race-track.
We didn't go over there until 430, but at 230, we were seriously debating whether one of us should just stay home with Jenna, and save our friends (and their kids) from her wrath. Idiots that we are, we decided to take her. (Cue 'scary movie' music.) Instead of reliving the horror, I'll just cut it short and say that the following things were involved: shrieking, screaming, whining, crying; hitting a nice boy in the face with a piece of flexible, plastic racetrack; not apologizing, refusing to apologize, downright refusing to utter a syllable of apologetic phrasing to the boy, finally uttering apology after being warned that no dessert will be issued; refusing to give goodbye hugs/kisses/pats/high-fives, or any other show of friendship; breaking boys' hearts. Wow. We are off to SUCH a good start to those tumultuous teenage years.
Jan 28, 2005
Make a note of this
If the package says, "Processed on equipment also used to manufacture products containing brazil nuts, cashews, filberts, pecans, pistachios, walnuts, milk, wheat," do NOT eat it.
The swelling of my throat, although the most interesting thing that's happened to me all day, is not pleasant.
Damn! Damn those crafty tree nuts!
The swelling of my throat, although the most interesting thing that's happened to me all day, is not pleasant.
Damn! Damn those crafty tree nuts!
Jan 27, 2005
Creativity
Note: Plagiarism is a crime, for which I have the immediate right to kick your ass.
Excommunication
He commands me to speak.
I sit quietly twiddling my thumbs--
a habit passed on from the Irish grandfather
that I am to emulate.
My tongue feels like crumpled cellophane;
my lips produce a sound
that tastes like foil on my teeth.
I deny my heritage by
shredding the musical syllables
of my own name.
Silence falls across the table--
the lost language
will never resonate in the voices of his young.
He rises heavily
to go pray to Brigid's cross
leaving me to sit
with echoes of the Fair Isle in my head.
Excommunication II
His footfall is loud and imposing--
my ignorance sounded in every step.
He sets the book down in front of me
and returns to the shadows of his room.
I am left alone with this
crumbling capsule of dreams.
I know this book well.
It holds words inscribed in a fading language:
stories of a brave journey over raging waters
to a new and unfamiliar land.
Words that have been read
to eager ears a thousand times over
in a rich, Irish brogue.
I trace my fingers over the musty, yellowed pages.
Scents of fear, dreams, death, and pride
linger in these aged words.
Tales of poverty and hope,
religion and war, the jeweled coast of Éire
and the exhilaration of America scream from
this manuscript of immigrant life.
The forgotten dialect of my past whets
my mind and pours from my mouth with a surge
of defiance.
Oddly enough, in these foreign words
that I have for so long refused to accept,
I feel the worth of my heritage.
He Paints
Sitting, draped in sheets,
she is posed between boredom
and posterity.
She is painted by
his mind: censored dream of
passion,
raging with incarnate color.
Pursuing a portrait--he
tirelessly seeks
timbres of color
to echo the morning light
in her eyes.
He paints the pearl of
her skin with the luminous
fire of opals.
And while he paints, he
sings in whispers that echo
faded shades of blue.
Once blank, his curtains
of canvas now reflect the
passions of the mind.
Addiction
The cheap hotel room
smells of mildew and lust.
Daylight cracks through
the heavy drapes-
but to her
time is an abstraction.
She sits in a haze.
Her eyes excrete
dark makeup and tears
of false ecstasy.
Her conscience speaks:
Is this what you fucked him for?
Such a naïve form of acceptance.
She swears it’s not a habit:
the venom that turns
beautiful faces into
grim, grinning masks.
She says she can quit.
But hiding her reflection from the mirror,
she falters
and burns her life away
in the cavity of a dirty spoon.
Insanity
Locked in her world, she
inhales the hate in the air and
holds it in her lungs.
She burns the rest of
her sanity and watches
the smoke blow out the
window in grey clouds.
She sings along with the voice
in her head and laughs…
her life is nothing more
than a question.
hello, mother
The photo is bent back.
She’s smiling here,
her hair golden,
skin soft and tan,
her eyes hold the polished
depth of marble.
I remember that summer.
I watched her stumble,
never noticing how
she sold me virtues
laden with a heavy price.
I saw her lie to herself,
then repair the deceit with
false promises.
Men promised her
castles and crowns.
Every one of them
chiseled lines in her
trusting features.
They used her--
kept her as a pet,
leaving when
there was nothing left.
She loved them.
Is integrity still a word?
So many demons
look down on her now.
I wonder if
I stole her life--
quietly learning from each mistake
or did she crucify herself to save
my perception of reality?
Her life is a charade.
Once open windows,
her eyes are frosted over.
She sees the world
through the corrected vision
of shattered trust,
and weaves a shroud of strength
from invisible fragments
strewn on the floor.
She cries to sacrifices she can’t replace.
The photo is bent back.
And falls into
separate pieces.
hello mother
Palace Stone
All of the others are drab, greyish-white,
lending nothing to the kaleidoscope garden
in which they live.
This one stands out proudly from the others.
Grey, all the same, but infused
with a lightning pattern of marble white.
A perfect, royal stone --
fired by the Bavarian sun and
scarred by the cold winds of the Nazi rain.
I kneel down in the palace walk
and pluck the stone from the ground.
It could have tumbled from the rising baroque spires.
A castaway of a higher calling
molded into a smooth, elliptical stone
from the limestone cherub that it once was.
Perhaps, it was created by the countless mythological gods
watching the days from their pedestals
with empty, sculpted eyes.
The grand cornucopia of Dionysus,
the quiver of Artemis,
or the flowing robes of Hera
could be the birthplace of this stone.
Possibly, the stone made its way here
tumbling from an alpine loft
only to have found sanctity in a rushing, icy river
that brought it to its regal resting place
here in the palace garden.
Now, a journey begins to another
place, another home among stones
where it’s life will continue.
This stone
nestled in my hand,
holds history.
Crossing
In the teeth-clenching,
last sorrows of puberty,
she sits on the curb
with her head in her hands.
Eyebrows wrinkled
in deep thought,
she recounts each step
of her mechanical childhood:
books, Barbies,
and dolls--easy things for a girl.
She bestows frail smiles at passing cars.
Tomorrow is filled with nothing.
She gets up, wearing her burden
on her chest like an adolescent logo.
Trying in her mind to cross
the bridge between girl and woman.
City Song
Her shoes pound out a
New York beat on the
heated pavement of
the lonely streets.
Scents of the city
and the muttered sounds
of jazz played in the
back room of a dark
alley bar haze
her vision.
The euphonic screams
of a city-wise
vagrant intrude upon
her abducted state
of mind.
She stares at him
with night-blind eyes,
hearing nothing
but empty harmony.
People rush by,
not stopping
to hear the silent
screaming of her song.
Excommunication
He commands me to speak.
I sit quietly twiddling my thumbs--
a habit passed on from the Irish grandfather
that I am to emulate.
My tongue feels like crumpled cellophane;
my lips produce a sound
that tastes like foil on my teeth.
I deny my heritage by
shredding the musical syllables
of my own name.
Silence falls across the table--
the lost language
will never resonate in the voices of his young.
He rises heavily
to go pray to Brigid's cross
leaving me to sit
with echoes of the Fair Isle in my head.
Excommunication II
His footfall is loud and imposing--
my ignorance sounded in every step.
He sets the book down in front of me
and returns to the shadows of his room.
I am left alone with this
crumbling capsule of dreams.
I know this book well.
It holds words inscribed in a fading language:
stories of a brave journey over raging waters
to a new and unfamiliar land.
Words that have been read
to eager ears a thousand times over
in a rich, Irish brogue.
I trace my fingers over the musty, yellowed pages.
Scents of fear, dreams, death, and pride
linger in these aged words.
Tales of poverty and hope,
religion and war, the jeweled coast of Éire
and the exhilaration of America scream from
this manuscript of immigrant life.
The forgotten dialect of my past whets
my mind and pours from my mouth with a surge
of defiance.
Oddly enough, in these foreign words
that I have for so long refused to accept,
I feel the worth of my heritage.
He Paints
Sitting, draped in sheets,
she is posed between boredom
and posterity.
She is painted by
his mind: censored dream of
passion,
raging with incarnate color.
Pursuing a portrait--he
tirelessly seeks
timbres of color
to echo the morning light
in her eyes.
He paints the pearl of
her skin with the luminous
fire of opals.
And while he paints, he
sings in whispers that echo
faded shades of blue.
Once blank, his curtains
of canvas now reflect the
passions of the mind.
Addiction
The cheap hotel room
smells of mildew and lust.
Daylight cracks through
the heavy drapes-
but to her
time is an abstraction.
She sits in a haze.
Her eyes excrete
dark makeup and tears
of false ecstasy.
Her conscience speaks:
Is this what you fucked him for?
Such a naïve form of acceptance.
She swears it’s not a habit:
the venom that turns
beautiful faces into
grim, grinning masks.
She says she can quit.
But hiding her reflection from the mirror,
she falters
and burns her life away
in the cavity of a dirty spoon.
Insanity
Locked in her world, she
inhales the hate in the air and
holds it in her lungs.
She burns the rest of
her sanity and watches
the smoke blow out the
window in grey clouds.
She sings along with the voice
in her head and laughs…
her life is nothing more
than a question.
hello, mother
The photo is bent back.
She’s smiling here,
her hair golden,
skin soft and tan,
her eyes hold the polished
depth of marble.
I remember that summer.
I watched her stumble,
never noticing how
she sold me virtues
laden with a heavy price.
I saw her lie to herself,
then repair the deceit with
false promises.
Men promised her
castles and crowns.
Every one of them
chiseled lines in her
trusting features.
They used her--
kept her as a pet,
leaving when
there was nothing left.
She loved them.
Is integrity still a word?
So many demons
look down on her now.
I wonder if
I stole her life--
quietly learning from each mistake
or did she crucify herself to save
my perception of reality?
Her life is a charade.
Once open windows,
her eyes are frosted over.
She sees the world
through the corrected vision
of shattered trust,
and weaves a shroud of strength
from invisible fragments
strewn on the floor.
She cries to sacrifices she can’t replace.
The photo is bent back.
And falls into
separate pieces.
hello mother
Palace Stone
All of the others are drab, greyish-white,
lending nothing to the kaleidoscope garden
in which they live.
This one stands out proudly from the others.
Grey, all the same, but infused
with a lightning pattern of marble white.
A perfect, royal stone --
fired by the Bavarian sun and
scarred by the cold winds of the Nazi rain.
I kneel down in the palace walk
and pluck the stone from the ground.
It could have tumbled from the rising baroque spires.
A castaway of a higher calling
molded into a smooth, elliptical stone
from the limestone cherub that it once was.
Perhaps, it was created by the countless mythological gods
watching the days from their pedestals
with empty, sculpted eyes.
The grand cornucopia of Dionysus,
the quiver of Artemis,
or the flowing robes of Hera
could be the birthplace of this stone.
Possibly, the stone made its way here
tumbling from an alpine loft
only to have found sanctity in a rushing, icy river
that brought it to its regal resting place
here in the palace garden.
Now, a journey begins to another
place, another home among stones
where it’s life will continue.
This stone
nestled in my hand,
holds history.
Crossing
In the teeth-clenching,
last sorrows of puberty,
she sits on the curb
with her head in her hands.
Eyebrows wrinkled
in deep thought,
she recounts each step
of her mechanical childhood:
books, Barbies,
and dolls--easy things for a girl.
She bestows frail smiles at passing cars.
Tomorrow is filled with nothing.
She gets up, wearing her burden
on her chest like an adolescent logo.
Trying in her mind to cross
the bridge between girl and woman.
City Song
Her shoes pound out a
New York beat on the
heated pavement of
the lonely streets.
Scents of the city
and the muttered sounds
of jazz played in the
back room of a dark
alley bar haze
her vision.
The euphonic screams
of a city-wise
vagrant intrude upon
her abducted state
of mind.
She stares at him
with night-blind eyes,
hearing nothing
but empty harmony.
People rush by,
not stopping
to hear the silent
screaming of her song.
How to charm me
Send me an IM telling me how upset you are that Johnny is being sent to "Camp Lagoon." I know you thought that spelled "LeJeune."
"Who's Johnny?" she said...
Oh, the trials of life. My sister is, without a doubt, the most unlucky person in the world when it comes to relationships. Seriously, this poor woman gets the shittiest luck. In all actuality, she has really only dated one extreme loser, but he was the poster-child for freaks; he covers all the bases and that allows me to count him at least three times. Wherefore, I get to say that she has the shittiest luck in all relationships.
For the past 3 years or so, she has been in a good relationship. Oh, don't get me wrong, they've had their ups and downs--mostly due to the fact that her boyfriend (a)has no control over his spending issues, (b)has no idea how to pay bills, and (c)has a 'non-marriage' issue that no one understands. However, I digress. We all love Johnny, and that love has nothing to do with the fact that he looks like a young George Clooney. Okay, maybe it does, but he's also really nice. And he's cute. Did I say he looks like George Clooney? Because he does.
Anyways, Shannon loves Johnny, and Johnny loves Shannon. They're a good match, and one day, will create the most gorgeous children the world has ever seen. Here comes the bad news: Johnny got a call this morning from his Master Sergeant. Johnny will be leaving on March 6th to report to Camp LeJeune for one year. Oh, Marine Corps people, why can't you just leave Johnny alone? I must say, although it sucks for Shannon, it's good for Johnny. Johnny's NYPD. He has less chance of getting hurt in Camp LeJeune than he does on his regular shift in NY. Unless, of course, you count the time he was attacked by super-killer chickens.
Hope there are no chickens in Camp LeJeune.
WE LOVE YOU, JOHNNY!
For the past 3 years or so, she has been in a good relationship. Oh, don't get me wrong, they've had their ups and downs--mostly due to the fact that her boyfriend (a)has no control over his spending issues, (b)has no idea how to pay bills, and (c)has a 'non-marriage' issue that no one understands. However, I digress. We all love Johnny, and that love has nothing to do with the fact that he looks like a young George Clooney. Okay, maybe it does, but he's also really nice. And he's cute. Did I say he looks like George Clooney? Because he does.
Anyways, Shannon loves Johnny, and Johnny loves Shannon. They're a good match, and one day, will create the most gorgeous children the world has ever seen. Here comes the bad news: Johnny got a call this morning from his Master Sergeant. Johnny will be leaving on March 6th to report to Camp LeJeune for one year. Oh, Marine Corps people, why can't you just leave Johnny alone? I must say, although it sucks for Shannon, it's good for Johnny. Johnny's NYPD. He has less chance of getting hurt in Camp LeJeune than he does on his regular shift in NY. Unless, of course, you count the time he was attacked by super-killer chickens.
Hope there are no chickens in Camp LeJeune.
WE LOVE YOU, JOHNNY!
Jan 26, 2005
Co-Worker Stereotypes
There are ever so many:
The One That Won't Retire
There are so many, but I'll pick on one because the other goes in a different category. This person attends meetings, but sleeps in them. Nodding off between speakers, if asked a question (loudly), this person mumbles something unidentifiable and nods. This person also sleeps in their office and snores. Good God. Save us all from this farce and RETIRE ALREADY. You're older than Jesus H. Christ!
The One that Has No Fucking Clue
Oh, we all have one of these. The one whom everybody talks about, asking, "What, exactly, does this person do?" Well, you know what? Nobody knows. The only work-related thing you've ever seen this person do is take meeting notes, and we all know the only reason for taking notes is to look like you know what you're doing. WE KNOW YOU'RE STUPID. Stop taking notes already.
The Time-Keeper
"Is this doc ready?" "Do you have this doc for me?" "Did you get this doc yet?"
Yea, I got it TWO FUCKING MINUTES AGO, lady. I can't even piss that fast, let alone edit a document. Leave me alone, and you'll get it when I'm good and ready.
The Bitch
She seems nice, but will talk about you behind your back (blogging doesn't count)at any given moment. She pretends she's your friend, but you hear that she doesn't like you. Fuck off. I don't like you either. You also have lots of wrinkles, and everyone thinks you sleep around. Ha ha. TAKE THAT.
The I-Think-I'm-A-Playa
This one makes friends with you, then hits on you when you least expect it. Since you wouldn't give him the time of day, every time you see him, you can make a smacking motion--Smack down! He's so embarrassed about it, so make sure you don't let him forget that he's a desperate moron.
Last, but not least
The Creepy Boob-looker
This guy is the fricking worst. He can't even hold a conversation with you because he's talking to your boobs. He's the type where, if both of you were working late, you'd lock your office door and put your husband on speaker phone. Ewwww.
The One That Won't Retire
There are so many, but I'll pick on one because the other goes in a different category. This person attends meetings, but sleeps in them. Nodding off between speakers, if asked a question (loudly), this person mumbles something unidentifiable and nods. This person also sleeps in their office and snores. Good God. Save us all from this farce and RETIRE ALREADY. You're older than Jesus H. Christ!
The One that Has No Fucking Clue
Oh, we all have one of these. The one whom everybody talks about, asking, "What, exactly, does this person do?" Well, you know what? Nobody knows. The only work-related thing you've ever seen this person do is take meeting notes, and we all know the only reason for taking notes is to look like you know what you're doing. WE KNOW YOU'RE STUPID. Stop taking notes already.
The Time-Keeper
"Is this doc ready?" "Do you have this doc for me?" "Did you get this doc yet?"
Yea, I got it TWO FUCKING MINUTES AGO, lady. I can't even piss that fast, let alone edit a document. Leave me alone, and you'll get it when I'm good and ready.
The Bitch
She seems nice, but will talk about you behind your back (blogging doesn't count)at any given moment. She pretends she's your friend, but you hear that she doesn't like you. Fuck off. I don't like you either. You also have lots of wrinkles, and everyone thinks you sleep around. Ha ha. TAKE THAT.
The I-Think-I'm-A-Playa
This one makes friends with you, then hits on you when you least expect it. Since you wouldn't give him the time of day, every time you see him, you can make a smacking motion--Smack down! He's so embarrassed about it, so make sure you don't let him forget that he's a desperate moron.
Last, but not least
The Creepy Boob-looker
This guy is the fricking worst. He can't even hold a conversation with you because he's talking to your boobs. He's the type where, if both of you were working late, you'd lock your office door and put your husband on speaker phone. Ewwww.
How to annoy me
Keep saying, "Look at his wee little boots," and "Donkey."
Listen, you don't sound like Shrek--not even REMOTELY--and for God's sake, your accent doesn't even sound Scottish. It sounds like some horrible mix between Iranian and German.
Listen, you don't sound like Shrek--not even REMOTELY--and for God's sake, your accent doesn't even sound Scottish. It sounds like some horrible mix between Iranian and German.
British man
My pda is messed up. The transcribing feature has totally screwed the pooch. It recognizes every letter I write as an 'o', 'i', or 's'. So, if I type in, "My kids are so cute, and I'm not just saying that because I'm their mother," it reads it as, "ooooooosssososiiiisoooisoi soi siosiso isisisis osiosiso." What a royal pain in the tannenbaums.
I was lying in bed last night, trying to fix the damn thing, while Scott took a poop. He was reading Maxim, I was messing with my pda. We're normal--really. He shut the bathroom door, so he could wipe, and I continued playing with the pda. He hopped into bed with me and wanted to "help." Now, let me preface this by saying the man has NO technological bone in his body. He still writes checks and mails them with stamps. Frightening, I know.
So, being the good wife that I am (and humoring him, of course), I hand it to him. He messes with it for a few minutes, and lo and behold, he CAN'T fix it. Shocker to us all, I'm sure. He then spends the next 15 minutes trying to write something that DOESN'T end up being transcribed as an o, s, or i. He finally weaseled a t and a u out of the damn thing. He scribbled across the screen in a jumbled mess of nonsense, and the pda transcribed it as "tabby Notes." We both found this completely hilarious--why, I don't know. However, it was even MORE hilarious when Scott said, in a horrible, horrible British accent: "'Ello, oy'm tabby Notes!" We laughed so hard, that we got drool on the bed.
We are SO weird.
I was lying in bed last night, trying to fix the damn thing, while Scott took a poop. He was reading Maxim, I was messing with my pda. We're normal--really. He shut the bathroom door, so he could wipe, and I continued playing with the pda. He hopped into bed with me and wanted to "help." Now, let me preface this by saying the man has NO technological bone in his body. He still writes checks and mails them with stamps. Frightening, I know.
So, being the good wife that I am (and humoring him, of course), I hand it to him. He messes with it for a few minutes, and lo and behold, he CAN'T fix it. Shocker to us all, I'm sure. He then spends the next 15 minutes trying to write something that DOESN'T end up being transcribed as an o, s, or i. He finally weaseled a t and a u out of the damn thing. He scribbled across the screen in a jumbled mess of nonsense, and the pda transcribed it as "tabby Notes." We both found this completely hilarious--why, I don't know. However, it was even MORE hilarious when Scott said, in a horrible, horrible British accent: "'Ello, oy'm tabby Notes!" We laughed so hard, that we got drool on the bed.
We are SO weird.
Conversations with Jenna
"Jenna, eat your vegetables."
"No."
"Jenna, you need to eat your corn and beans."
"No."
"Jenna, at least take one bite of each."
(long sigh)"Mommy, I don't like these. I need more options."
I'm scared for my future.
"No."
"Jenna, you need to eat your corn and beans."
"No."
"Jenna, at least take one bite of each."
(long sigh)"Mommy, I don't like these. I need more options."
I'm scared for my future.
Jan 24, 2005
Make a note of this
Jenna, upon seeing a picture of Claire:
"Awwwww...look at that little sweetheart!"
"Awwwww...look at that little sweetheart!"
It's cold in the doghouse
I am SO in trouble. I don't know why though. Ok. Yes, I do. I spent $50 this weekend. You know, I NEVER spend money, then when I do, I get in trouble. Scott was slamming the doors and being short with me. Shithead.
Okay, so I didn't need new shoes, but there was a SALE, people! A GOOD sale! I know I bought shoes on Friday, but on Sunday, I went back. I got a rockin' pair of purple ankle boots for $10. Oh yes, TEN DOLLARS. Don't let the color scare you: they're a deep, deep heathered-eggplant color. They're gorgeous. Regularly $59.99. Claire needed new shoes, too. She got pink suede tennis shoes. They're adorable, and they make her run really fast.
Men. They just don't get it.
Okay, so I didn't need new shoes, but there was a SALE, people! A GOOD sale! I know I bought shoes on Friday, but on Sunday, I went back. I got a rockin' pair of purple ankle boots for $10. Oh yes, TEN DOLLARS. Don't let the color scare you: they're a deep, deep heathered-eggplant color. They're gorgeous. Regularly $59.99. Claire needed new shoes, too. She got pink suede tennis shoes. They're adorable, and they make her run really fast.
Men. They just don't get it.
She's a baker, for God's sake!
I had the strangest dream. I mean creepy strange. My sister and I were in a house, that was my house, but not really. She had gotten a note from my brother. The note said that he was leaving for Mexico because, since getting out of the Marine Corps, he had murdered 28 people. Judging the look in his eyes in his "Marine Corps Portrait," I'm not so surprised. For our viewing pleasure, he had made a list of a few of them. The list included "the woman who makes 7-layer cookies," and "the girl scouts that sold me the cookies." At the end of the letter, he had written, "all-in-all, i've killed about 28 people." My sister and I were stunned. We questioned each other: "Seven layer cookies are so good. WHY? WHY kill the '7-layer-cookie-maker'?" Nevermind that he murdered innocent people--it's the fact that he killed a baker. "And the girl scouts? What have they ever done to him, except provide him with delicious, American-made delicacies? Cripes. What a freak."
I will never understand how my mind works. Don't 7-layer cookies sound so good?
I will never understand how my mind works. Don't 7-layer cookies sound so good?
Get kids off the streets
Me: Did you buy any girl scout cookies?
Scott: Yea, I bought 2 boxes. Why?
Me: Okay, I bought some, too.
Scott: How many?
Me: 10 boxes...
Scott: No you didn't. You're kidding right?
Me: No. I bought 10 boxes.
Scott: You bought THIRTY-FIVE dollars worth of girl scout cookies?!
Me: Uh, yeeesss.
Scott: Why do we need $35 worth of cookies?
Me: Hello...I had to buy thin mints, samoas, peanut butter ones, shortbread, and those new chocolate-covered animal cracker things. Geesh!
Scott: Woman, what's your problem?
Me: Get off my back. I'm supporting America's youth. Besides, they freeze well.
Scott: Yea, I bought 2 boxes. Why?
Me: Okay, I bought some, too.
Scott: How many?
Me: 10 boxes...
Scott: No you didn't. You're kidding right?
Me: No. I bought 10 boxes.
Scott: You bought THIRTY-FIVE dollars worth of girl scout cookies?!
Me: Uh, yeeesss.
Scott: Why do we need $35 worth of cookies?
Me: Hello...I had to buy thin mints, samoas, peanut butter ones, shortbread, and those new chocolate-covered animal cracker things. Geesh!
Scott: Woman, what's your problem?
Me: Get off my back. I'm supporting America's youth. Besides, they freeze well.
Jan 21, 2005
Jan 20, 2005
Define THIS
CIO= Cry It Out. The term used to describe a method of getting your baby to sleep through the night. It involves letting your baby cry, while the parent checks on the baby at timed intervals to offer reassurance and love.
That, my friends, is the biggest crock of stinking bullshit I have ever heard. Maybe it works for some people, but not for us. I gave in last night. I gave in, and in order to save my sanity, stuffed a boob in her mouth. "Oh, you are so weak!" you must be thinking. Well, you know what? She screamed for over an hour. She screamed and jumped up and down in her crib. FOR. AN. HOUR. I am tired. I need sleep in order to function. I need to function in order to work. I need to work in order to make money. I need money in order to buy the kid diapers and food. So, what it all boils down to is the following: If I don't give the kid boobs, she'll be walking around with no diaper and a dirty t-shirt, holding a sign that says, "Feed Me."
I gave her boobs. So shoot me.
That, my friends, is the biggest crock of stinking bullshit I have ever heard. Maybe it works for some people, but not for us. I gave in last night. I gave in, and in order to save my sanity, stuffed a boob in her mouth. "Oh, you are so weak!" you must be thinking. Well, you know what? She screamed for over an hour. She screamed and jumped up and down in her crib. FOR. AN. HOUR. I am tired. I need sleep in order to function. I need to function in order to work. I need to work in order to make money. I need money in order to buy the kid diapers and food. So, what it all boils down to is the following: If I don't give the kid boobs, she'll be walking around with no diaper and a dirty t-shirt, holding a sign that says, "Feed Me."
I gave her boobs. So shoot me.
Jan 19, 2005
The story about the baby who wants boobies who just won't stop crying for the boobies because she MUST. HAVE. THE. BOOBIES.
Okay, so I have this friend, and this friend told me about a girl she knows that has a baby that wants boobies all the damn time. The poor girl gets NO sleep, because the boobie-coveting baby only wants HER. I mean, what IS it about the boobs? It's not like they're spewing forth Apple Jacks, which the baby LOVES (and I only know this because my friend of the girl that has the baby that I'm talking about told me), or anything. And this baby, from what I hear, is so tired, that she's screaming for "b-b-b-b-b-b-boooooooooob-b-b-b-b-b-ies!!" at the top of her lungs with her eyes closed, while simultaneously stuffing a fat, pudgy hand down the mom's shirt, feeling for the warm boobies. So, telling the baby that the "boobies are all gone" just does not suffice, because the baby KNOWS the boobies are there and can prove it by grabbing them. So anyways, this baby woke up at 3am screaming for the boobies and starts pulling up the mom's shirt to get them. Yes, the baby was in bed with the mom, but it wasn't the mom's fault. You see, the DAD was supposed to move the baby back into the baby's bed after the baby fell asleep, but HE DIDN'T. The dad said that as soon as he touched the baby, the baby started crying, and because the dad is a shit-head wuss that can't handle a crying baby, he just left the baby sleeping next to mom when he KNEW damn well that if the baby woke up lying right frickin' next to the milk bar that the baby would go in for a hit off the keg. For crying out loud, man! What's your fuckin' problem?! Are you a moron? Apparently, since the dad has never had a small mammal attached to his boob for SEVENTEEN months, he has no understanding of what the mom's going through. So this poor, tired mom takes the screaming baby into the baby's room, kisses the baby (when she really wants to bite off the baby's head so it will be quiet), and places the baby in the crib with the binkie and the fishtank and the special pooh-bear that all promised to put the baby to sleep on the packages that they came in. Liars. All of them. Dirty, rat-bastard, fucking liars. The mom then retreats back to the master bedroom, where she steps over her other kid (who is sleeping on the floor next to mom's bed because this kid also wants mommy 24/7), and gets into bed. She tells her husband that if the boob-baby is still crying after 20 minutes, that HE will have to get up and go comfort said baby. After 20 minutes, the baby is STILL crying, so husband gets up (sulkingly, she said) and tromps off to the baby's room. Over the monitor, the mom hears the dad comfort the baby in his comforting way, "What the heck is your problem?!" Which was said to the baby in a manner that would be confused with speaking to a teenaged, drug abuser. After baby continues to scream, the dad walks back into the master bedroom, fumbles around in the bathroom (leaving on the light), then goes into the closet and pulls out a shirt. The mom looks at him and says, "What are you doing?" and the dad, in all his childish glory, states, "She's not going to stop screaming, and it's already 4 o'clock, so I'm just going to get ready for work. There's no point in going back to sleep for 2 hours." I'm serious. SO SERIOUS. Mom, gets up, goes into the baby's room, picks up the baby and loves on her (but doesn't give boobies) until both baby and mom fall asleep in the twin bed in the toddler's room (remember, the other kid is sleeping in the master bedroom on the floor) around 530 am. Dad, of course, went back to sleep in the soft, comfy, queen-size bed, without a 17-month-old attached to his head like a koala. At 630am, mom was awakened by dad poking her in the head with his fat finger: "Wake up. It's 630." So mom gets up, gets the kids ready for the sitter's, and gets everyone out the door. Everybody is happy and rested. Except for the mom.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?
And, just so you know, NO, this story isn't about me. I would never say FUCK.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?
And, just so you know, NO, this story isn't about me. I would never say FUCK.
How to annoy me
Eat my sago palms. Then proceed to toss the fronds all over the backyard, as if you're hosting a canine luau. Dog, I would kick your ass if you didn't weigh 120 pounds and have meat-rippers the size of icepicks.
Jan 18, 2005
Two of a kind
stewbie2: omg, I'm starving.
angel : Are you not eating?
angel : I had a peanut butter and Banana sandwich for lunch
stewbie2: Oh, no. I'm eating, I'm just still HUNGRY. I had two frickin bowls of lettuce for lunch, and a bag of trail mix. DAMN the lettuce!! It digests way too fast!
angel : That sounds good. I want a chicken lettuce wrap from PF Changs.
stewbie2: that sounds good, too. Right now, I would like Twinkies. Twinkies are so good.
angel : I LOVE Twinkies!!!!!!!!
stewbie2: Twinkies are the food of God. Instead of communion wafers, you should get communion twinkies.
angel : Amen sista
angel : Are you not eating?
angel : I had a peanut butter and Banana sandwich for lunch
stewbie2: Oh, no. I'm eating, I'm just still HUNGRY. I had two frickin bowls of lettuce for lunch, and a bag of trail mix. DAMN the lettuce!! It digests way too fast!
angel : That sounds good. I want a chicken lettuce wrap from PF Changs.
stewbie2: that sounds good, too. Right now, I would like Twinkies. Twinkies are so good.
angel : I LOVE Twinkies!!!!!!!!
stewbie2: Twinkies are the food of God. Instead of communion wafers, you should get communion twinkies.
angel : Amen sista
Conversations with Jenna
While watching "The Lion King 1-1/2":
"Ewwww...they're eating bugs! I don't like bugs, mom! Do you like bugs?"
"I like some bugs. I like ladybugs..."
"I like ladybugs."
"and butterflies..."
"I like butterflies."
"and curly bugs, and grasshoppers. Have you ever seen a grasshopper?"
"Yes. Yes, I have. They hop like bunnies."
"Yep, they sure do."
--after some contemplation--
"I like CareBears, too."
"Ewwww...they're eating bugs! I don't like bugs, mom! Do you like bugs?"
"I like some bugs. I like ladybugs..."
"I like ladybugs."
"and butterflies..."
"I like butterflies."
"and curly bugs, and grasshoppers. Have you ever seen a grasshopper?"
"Yes. Yes, I have. They hop like bunnies."
"Yep, they sure do."
--after some contemplation--
"I like CareBears, too."
Did you hear that?
At exactly 6:21 am, on this chilly Tuesday morning, the gates of hell were opened. That would be the exact moment that my husband woke up Jenna. She goes from zero to screaming in less than .1 seconds. People within a 5 block radius run for an interior closet, throwing pillows and mattresses over their loved ones because the sound of Jenna's scream is louder than the loudest tornado warning system ever invented. Child Protective Services just ignores all calls that come in from our zip code between the hours of 6:20 and 7am, because they know it's just "that Townsend kid."
"Scream" really doesn't do that sound justice. It's so much more than just a scream--it's a long-lasting, loud and mighty wail that resonates through your bones. From the moment it begins, it doesn't dip in crescendo. I used to wait for her to take a breath, but now I know that the kid has better breath control than Jacque Costeau so I just don't wait anymore. Incredible as it may seem, I have learned to ignore it. I can get her dressed, fix her hair, brush her teeth, wash her face, put on her shoes, and get her all zipped in her jacket--while she screams her head off. Impressive, I know. When she finally gets loaded in the car, the silence of the house is frightening, so I often scream. Just so I feel comfortable.
Scott is not as talented as I. He has a harder time ignoring it. We tag-teamed this morning--squirting 3 types of medicine in Jenna's mouth with a syringe. He had to hold her, I had to syringe her. It's much like trying to get a cat to take a pill (minus the claws). After we medicated her, Scott went off somewhere--most likely under the bed to cry and question God as to why we have created the demon spawn--while I put her coat on. Scott returned from his hiding place, took Claire out to the truck, then came back in to get Jenna. Jenna screamed at the top of her lungs (my neighbors don't need alarm clocks!) while Scott battled her body-stiffening technique to try to get her strapped in the car seat. Meanwhile, I had shut the door and was studying the sudden silence of my house, while the cat removed herself from the ceiling. Next thing I know, the door opens, Jenna is set down in the foyer (to be pronounced 'foy-yer'--not 'foy-yay'), and I hear the truck burn rubber as it squeals out of the driveway.
Guess daddy couldn't take the screaming.
And for those who are wondering: Claire was an innocent bystander in all of this. Happily putzing around the house, finding bits of fuzz and catfood to munch on. Most likely, taking notes.
God help us.
"Scream" really doesn't do that sound justice. It's so much more than just a scream--it's a long-lasting, loud and mighty wail that resonates through your bones. From the moment it begins, it doesn't dip in crescendo. I used to wait for her to take a breath, but now I know that the kid has better breath control than Jacque Costeau so I just don't wait anymore. Incredible as it may seem, I have learned to ignore it. I can get her dressed, fix her hair, brush her teeth, wash her face, put on her shoes, and get her all zipped in her jacket--while she screams her head off. Impressive, I know. When she finally gets loaded in the car, the silence of the house is frightening, so I often scream. Just so I feel comfortable.
Scott is not as talented as I. He has a harder time ignoring it. We tag-teamed this morning--squirting 3 types of medicine in Jenna's mouth with a syringe. He had to hold her, I had to syringe her. It's much like trying to get a cat to take a pill (minus the claws). After we medicated her, Scott went off somewhere--most likely under the bed to cry and question God as to why we have created the demon spawn--while I put her coat on. Scott returned from his hiding place, took Claire out to the truck, then came back in to get Jenna. Jenna screamed at the top of her lungs (my neighbors don't need alarm clocks!) while Scott battled her body-stiffening technique to try to get her strapped in the car seat. Meanwhile, I had shut the door and was studying the sudden silence of my house, while the cat removed herself from the ceiling. Next thing I know, the door opens, Jenna is set down in the foyer (to be pronounced 'foy-yer'--not 'foy-yay'), and I hear the truck burn rubber as it squeals out of the driveway.
Guess daddy couldn't take the screaming.
And for those who are wondering: Claire was an innocent bystander in all of this. Happily putzing around the house, finding bits of fuzz and catfood to munch on. Most likely, taking notes.
God help us.
Jan 14, 2005
Jan 13, 2005
Grosser than gross
Claire was up from 1145pm to 3am. That child has no sense of time, which makes me have to live my day with no sense at all. I'm so tired that I could sleep on my office floor. Actually, I COULD. I've done that before. In fact, when I was pregnant, I would curl up on my floor every day during lunch and conk out. Which reminds me (I don't know why) of a conversation I had with a friend the other day...
For a million dollars, would you walk into a gas-station restroom barefoot? I'm not talking a nice, Shell, inside-the-"Quick Shop" restroom; I'm talking about a random, one-pump, the-restroom-is-outside-and-you-need-a-key-which-is-attached-to-a-hubcap-so-you-don't-steal-it restroom. I don't think I could. Not even for a million dollars. I mean, seriously, just think about it. That is so revolting that it makes me shudder. I know some people that would--actually, Scott would, but his feet are so hardened and calloused that no bacteria, not even flesh-eating disease, could make it through his skin. Now, what if your feet were wet? UGH. NO WAY. Can you even imagine what would stick to your wet feet? Sweet baby Jesus. RANDOM. PUBIC. HAIR. Need I say more?
For a million dollars, would you walk into a gas-station restroom barefoot? I'm not talking a nice, Shell, inside-the-"Quick Shop" restroom; I'm talking about a random, one-pump, the-restroom-is-outside-and-you-need-a-key-which-is-attached-to-a-hubcap-so-you-don't-steal-it restroom. I don't think I could. Not even for a million dollars. I mean, seriously, just think about it. That is so revolting that it makes me shudder. I know some people that would--actually, Scott would, but his feet are so hardened and calloused that no bacteria, not even flesh-eating disease, could make it through his skin. Now, what if your feet were wet? UGH. NO WAY. Can you even imagine what would stick to your wet feet? Sweet baby Jesus. RANDOM. PUBIC. HAIR. Need I say more?
Jan 12, 2005
Greensleeves
Jenna was sick yesterday, so I worked from home. Unlike many people I know, I actually WORK when I'm working from home. Not like the majority of the people here that "work" from home and do nothing but sleep, fart, and reply to emails every 2 hours with short, non-sensical phrases like, "Sounds good," "No problem," or "I have bowel movements in my drawers." No, they really don't use that last one, but they should.
Anyways, teaching a three-year old to use a handkerchief to wipe their nose is akin to teaching a man how to wipe their drips of pee off the toilet seat--it can't be done. Case in point: I went through a roll of Charmin yesterday wiping Jenna's nose. Half the time, it was dripping down toward her upper lip before she said something, so as I was running to the bathroom to get the toilet paper, I was yelling, "Do NOT lick your snot!" I got tired of running, so after a while, I got a burp rag, dubbed it the "booger rag," and told her to use that. So why, OH WHY, did I still end up with green sleeves? Because she STILL would wipe her nose on my sleeves! Feigning love and affection, Jenna would come up to me and hug me while simultaneously wiping her nose on my sleeve. NICE. When I'd ask, "WHAT did you just do?!" She'd answer, "I did nothing."
Well, you know...I'd rather have snot on my sleeves, than puke. Now THAT'S just disgusting.
Anyways, teaching a three-year old to use a handkerchief to wipe their nose is akin to teaching a man how to wipe their drips of pee off the toilet seat--it can't be done. Case in point: I went through a roll of Charmin yesterday wiping Jenna's nose. Half the time, it was dripping down toward her upper lip before she said something, so as I was running to the bathroom to get the toilet paper, I was yelling, "Do NOT lick your snot!" I got tired of running, so after a while, I got a burp rag, dubbed it the "booger rag," and told her to use that. So why, OH WHY, did I still end up with green sleeves? Because she STILL would wipe her nose on my sleeves! Feigning love and affection, Jenna would come up to me and hug me while simultaneously wiping her nose on my sleeve. NICE. When I'd ask, "WHAT did you just do?!" She'd answer, "I did nothing."
Well, you know...I'd rather have snot on my sleeves, than puke. Now THAT'S just disgusting.
Jan 7, 2005
Peace be with you
Jenna slept on our floor again last night. She didn't even wake us up. She just crept into our room, and lay down on the floor, and went to sleep. When Scott asked her why she came into our room last night, she said, "Because I need you." Claire also slept all night--not a peep out of her. Scott woke her up at 630 this morning. Why doesn't this ever happen on a weekend?
Jan 6, 2005
Screaming banshee
Jenna slept on our floor last night. I am SO tired of sharing the bed with her. She sleeps all over the place. So, last night when she sauntered in our room and tried to climb over me, I said, "Nope, nuh uh. Go get back in your bed." She started with that horrible caterwauling. Ugh. I hate that. So, I said, "Listen, you've got two choices: You can either go back to your nice, comfy bed, or you can sleep on my floor. What's it gonna be?" More screaming and weeping ensued. She slept on my floor (wrapped up in a nice, cozy comforter). Jeesh.
Jan 5, 2005
Looking back...and forward
Looking back over the past year, I can't believe how blessed our family has been. We have house to keep us sheltered, food to feed us, and love to keep us warm. Seeing the girls grow up so beautifully has been, and is, an awesome experience. There is not a moment of the day that I'm not reminded of them--it could be a smell, a sound, or just something small that catches my eye. They are everywhere with me. They are so embedded in my heart, that with each beat of mine, I feel that it's a beat of theirs as well.
Where we are now
Jenna
We are at such a tough point with Jenna. She's learning so much, and is accelerating so fast, that it's hard to keep up with her. She's so emotional, dramatic, clever, and sassy. To my chagrin, she's exactly like I was as a child. She is so entirely difficult to discipline--it's not that she doesn't listen, but that she will fight you the entire time. She is strong-willed and able to demand attention so easily. Even when we do our best to ignore her, you can't. Her presence is like a beacon; it shines so very brightly, that it's impossible to ignore. It's a gift--the way she is. She is spirited, and so beautiful in her energy. I have never seen a child like her before. She can be so loving and gentle, but so defiant and crazed. It's amazing. She makes me smile, not only across my face, but in my heart. She carries on conversations with me that should not be possible for a 3-year old to have. I am amazed with every curl of her sweet head; every lash lining those entrancing eyes...I love her like mad. I love the way her perfect cupid's bow dances above her laughter, I love the way she carries such an enchanting inflection in her speech. I love her fingers, her toes, her ears. I love that she often thinks the freckle on her finger is dirt, and how her brow furrows in her perplexity as she tries to scrub it off. I love how we share the same birthmark--same shape, same place. A mark that, for me, shows that she was meant to be my daughter, and I, her mother. Oh, sassy-pants-princess, I am forever grateful that my prayers were answered in you!
Now, onto my wee one...
Claire
Clairey, Clairey, Clairey...where shall I begin with you? Your laughing eyes? Your chubby little piggies? You, my precious baby girl, are as difficult to describe in words as your big sister. You are my beautiful little baby doll, my precious boo-boo magoo, my little pumpshkin. I love the twinkle of your laugh, the teasing in your eyes, and those babydoll teeth that we see so often in your gorgeous smile. You are so possessive of me, baby. You MUST have your mommy, and you don't let anything stand in your way--be it Jenna, OR daddy. You grab my leg, and loudly yell (in your adorable, raspy voice), "Miiine! My! Mine!" At night when I put you to bed, you grab my neck tightly, wrapping your little arms around my neck, and grit your teeth--trying to hold on to me as best you can. I literally have to pry you off of me, just to get you in your crib. You stand up in your crib, jumping, yelling, "Mamamamamamama!" and screaming as loud as you can. It's difficult to hear, but all you want is for me to hold you. I know this because 8 out of 10 times, I find myself reaching for you in the warm glow of your nightlight, just so I can calm your cries, wipe your tears, and feel your soft breath on my cheek. I'm such a pushover, and I have a feeling you know it. Clairey, you're also quite the smartypants. I love to give you extended directions, then watch in amazement as you carry it out to perfection. The other day, I said, "Claire, go get the sock you dropped in the kitchen. It's by your little kitchen, under your chair, on the floor. Go get it and bring it back to me, please." Obediently, you walked into the kitchen, went to your play kitchen, moved your chair, picked up the sock, and brought it back. You just love it when I give you a job to do. You clap for yourself, while we clap for you. Bunny, you are so affectionate, and so openly loving. You kiss me, Jenna, and daddy constantly, and when we're lucky, it's followed by a sweet, "I luh ooo." Those are the most precious words a mother's ears can ever hear. I love you, too.
Where we are now
Jenna
We are at such a tough point with Jenna. She's learning so much, and is accelerating so fast, that it's hard to keep up with her. She's so emotional, dramatic, clever, and sassy. To my chagrin, she's exactly like I was as a child. She is so entirely difficult to discipline--it's not that she doesn't listen, but that she will fight you the entire time. She is strong-willed and able to demand attention so easily. Even when we do our best to ignore her, you can't. Her presence is like a beacon; it shines so very brightly, that it's impossible to ignore. It's a gift--the way she is. She is spirited, and so beautiful in her energy. I have never seen a child like her before. She can be so loving and gentle, but so defiant and crazed. It's amazing. She makes me smile, not only across my face, but in my heart. She carries on conversations with me that should not be possible for a 3-year old to have. I am amazed with every curl of her sweet head; every lash lining those entrancing eyes...I love her like mad. I love the way her perfect cupid's bow dances above her laughter, I love the way she carries such an enchanting inflection in her speech. I love her fingers, her toes, her ears. I love that she often thinks the freckle on her finger is dirt, and how her brow furrows in her perplexity as she tries to scrub it off. I love how we share the same birthmark--same shape, same place. A mark that, for me, shows that she was meant to be my daughter, and I, her mother. Oh, sassy-pants-princess, I am forever grateful that my prayers were answered in you!
Now, onto my wee one...
Claire
Clairey, Clairey, Clairey...where shall I begin with you? Your laughing eyes? Your chubby little piggies? You, my precious baby girl, are as difficult to describe in words as your big sister. You are my beautiful little baby doll, my precious boo-boo magoo, my little pumpshkin. I love the twinkle of your laugh, the teasing in your eyes, and those babydoll teeth that we see so often in your gorgeous smile. You are so possessive of me, baby. You MUST have your mommy, and you don't let anything stand in your way--be it Jenna, OR daddy. You grab my leg, and loudly yell (in your adorable, raspy voice), "Miiine! My! Mine!" At night when I put you to bed, you grab my neck tightly, wrapping your little arms around my neck, and grit your teeth--trying to hold on to me as best you can. I literally have to pry you off of me, just to get you in your crib. You stand up in your crib, jumping, yelling, "Mamamamamamama!" and screaming as loud as you can. It's difficult to hear, but all you want is for me to hold you. I know this because 8 out of 10 times, I find myself reaching for you in the warm glow of your nightlight, just so I can calm your cries, wipe your tears, and feel your soft breath on my cheek. I'm such a pushover, and I have a feeling you know it. Clairey, you're also quite the smartypants. I love to give you extended directions, then watch in amazement as you carry it out to perfection. The other day, I said, "Claire, go get the sock you dropped in the kitchen. It's by your little kitchen, under your chair, on the floor. Go get it and bring it back to me, please." Obediently, you walked into the kitchen, went to your play kitchen, moved your chair, picked up the sock, and brought it back. You just love it when I give you a job to do. You clap for yourself, while we clap for you. Bunny, you are so affectionate, and so openly loving. You kiss me, Jenna, and daddy constantly, and when we're lucky, it's followed by a sweet, "I luh ooo." Those are the most precious words a mother's ears can ever hear. I love you, too.
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